by Alina Simone
For Josh: I couldn’t love you more
if Jesus flew out of your mouth
Table of Contents
Title Page
THE KOMSOMOL TRUTH
GLOOM-DEFLECTING MAILMAN WARRIOR GODS
DOWN AND OUT ON HOPE STREET
IMAGING THE OTHER
I WANTED UNICORNS
THE BENEFITS OF SELF-CASTRATION
TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS AND DRINK WITH US
GROWING INTO THE UNIVERSAL
THREE RANDOM FACEBOOK CHATS WITH MEN I HAD ASSUMED WERE FANS
YOU MUST GO AND WIN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Page
THE KOMSOMOL TRUTH
In late September 2008, I received an email from one ELMONSTRO with the subject line “Hello, Alina! Kharkov on the Line!” ELMONSTRO’s real name, it turned out, was Kiril, and he was a journalist for the Kharkov bureau of the newspaper Komsomolskaya Pravda, which he translated for me as “Komsomol True.” He had learned that I was born in Kharkov and wanted to interview me about my new album, a collection of songs covering the Soviet punk singer Yanka Dyagileva. “If will please you,” Kiril wrote, “reveal to us all news about your creation.”
It was the first time that anyone from the Ukrainian city where I was born had ever taken an interest in my music, and I was surprised. A little touched, even. My family had left the Soviet Union as political refugees when I was too young to remember, but sometimes I felt it anyway: a Kharkov-shaped hole in my heart. Not to mention that the motherland had come calling when I was feeling particularly homeless, having just moved from North Carolina to a temporary sublet in Brooklyn. My new apartment occupied the top floor of an old brownstone that was badly in need of repair. The closet doors were lying in a heap on the floor when I arrived, and there were holes the size of hand grenades beneath the rotted windowsills. Spinning the hot water tap in the shower felt like placing an outside bet on a roulette wheel. And the water didn’t emerge from the showerhead so much as the wall, like it was some kind of life-giving rock. I would press myself against the runoff in the mornings, before the tiles could suck away what little remained of its warmth. It was the kind of place that made you think too much about your station in life, your dimming prospects. If nothing else, I figured, an interview with “Komsomol True” could serve as a pleasant distraction from speed-dialing the three phone numbers my landlady had given me for her possibly imaginary handyman.
We left Kharkov because my father was blacklisted by the KGB, but whenever I asked why, Papa always replied that he’d never know for sure. Did I think he just received a form letter in the mail one day on KGB stationery that began “We regret to inform you …” and ended with a neat summary of his transgressions? If provoked further, he’d always end up demurring, “Don’t make me out to be some kind of dissident freedom fighter,” then retreat to a yellow legal pad full of equations. He refused to romanticize our flight from the Soviet Union, to let me imagine it as some kind of action-adventure movie from the eighties. It’s not like I ever slayed a Stormtrooper, his warning glance seemed to say, or breakdanced my way to freedom.
Papa did admit, however, that it probably had something to do with turning the KGB down when they made him a recruitment offer in college. In any case, it was soon afterward that bad things insisted on happening to my family. My father’s military health exemption (he’d had polio as a child) was revoked without warning and instead of serving in the officer corps, like most college graduates, he was sent off to work in the notoriously brutal building brigades of the Soviet army, alongside violent criminals. My mother was forced to quit her job and was mysteriously unable to find work, despite graduating with top honors from the state university. Unemployment was officially illegal, but she stayed home with me in the flat we shared with my father’s parents and sister while Papa drifted through a string of menial jobs, rarely lasting long at any of them.
You wouldn’t know it from looking at my family now, though. Within two years of leaving the Soviet Union, my father had his PhD in physics and a job at a good university. My mother, like most Russian immigrants, found work doing something with computers that I didn’t understand. And despite having just completed a thoroughly money-losing tour of the United States, even I had distinguished myself enough as a singer to merit an interview request from a newspaper in Kharkov. Thinking that this called for a self-congratulatory moment, I forwarded the message to my parents. I didn’t bother including a note, but the subtext was clear.
From my parents—usually quick with the email—there was a suspicious silence. A few hours later, my phone rang.
“I had no idea that rag still existed,” my mother said as soon as I picked up the phone. “You realize that was the official Communist newspaper?”
I knew that Komsomol was the abbreviated name for the youth division of the Communist Party and had to admit that it did sound pretty retro. But I was still willing to give Kiril the benefit of the doubt.
“Well, it’s a brand, after all—maybe they just didn’t want to give up on a solid brand after investing so much in it during Soviet times?”
“Are you seriously considering doing this interview?”
I hadn’t even considered not considering it. And why did Mama always have to act like someone just dropped an ice cube down her pants?
“Of course,” I answered.
And then my mother gave a very Russian kind of snort that could roughly be translated as “This is unbelievable and you are an idiot,” and hung up the phone.
For the rest of the day, I waited for some word from my father, but finally overcome with impatience, I decided to give him a call, just to make sure he’d gotten the message. When I reached him, he sounded a little surprised.
“What email?”
“From Kharkov! The one from Komsomolskaya Pravda.”
“Mmm. I think I remember something about that.”
“And?”
“Well,” my father said, with a tiny chuckle, “I guess it is interesting.” He seemed to draw some amusement from the situation, albeit from a very great distance, as though something mildly droll had just happened to an acquaintance on a planet in a parallel universe.
I wrote back to Kiril that night and explained that I would love to do the interview, but since I couldn’t write in Russian, it would be best if he just sent me the questions in Russian and I responded in English. But somehow I did a bad job communicating this request, because from that day forward, Kiril wrote to me in a dialect of English that might best be described as Google Translate on Acid.
Hello, Alina. I was pleasantly surprised, when got a rapid answer from you. Very interestingly me with you to communicate. Our musicians stick to very with self-confidence and journalists are not loved. I am a rad, that you are quite another man. If you will not object—I prepared questions by which I and our readers able to know you better. Here list of questions:
Though feeling a bit damaged by the Tilt-a-Whirl quality of Kiril’s prose, I moved on to the questions themselves and found that they fell into exactly three equally irritating categories.
The first category consisted of questions that I couldn’t understand at all. At the top of this list was “Do you have any zoons?” I had no idea what a zoon was. Having spent much of the past eight years surrounded by indie-rock guys whose favorite intimidation tactic always began “You’ve seriously never heard of [insert name of yesterminute’s most popular band here]?,” the zoon threw me into a small panic. I was convinced it was some really cool Ukrainian thing, the measure by which my own coolness would be judged. It was bad enough worrying about my relative coolness in one country without exposing myself to the
judgment of zoon-loving Ukrainian hipsters. I didn’t think that I had any, but regardless, decided it was safer to politely ignore this one.
The second category consisted of questions that I technically could answer, but very much preferred not to. This list included questions like: Are you very beautiful? Did not you think about the career of movie actor? Why exactly fate, considered that it is not quite womanish employment? Do you like to cook? Who you on the sign of zodiac? Did not you have a desire to engage in physics? Do you watch after that takes place now in Ukraine? Do you want to arrive to Kharkov with concerts?
The last category of questions, I had to admit, were best answered by my parents themselves. These included: Where lived? Where walked in child’s garden, in school? In what age you were driven away from Kharkov? What now do your parents get busy?
“I hope on a collaboration,” Kiril wrote before signing off with his regards, “and will be with impatience!”
Although my parents clearly were refusing to drink the Kool-Aid, I decided to forward the questions to them anyway, pointing out which ones they might answer if they had the time. Minutes later I received the following response from my mother:
Alina,
Could you please stop this “collaboration” for God’s
sake! I cannot read this nonsense anymore!
This is pure delirium.
m.
My father’s one-line response was:
I like “I am a rad” in Kiril’s message.
And that was it. Neither of them answered the questions or so much as implied that they would. But the next day, there was a message from my mother with an attachment labeled “Early Childhood” and a note that said:
Alina,
Here is a template for all inquiries of this kind. You
should keep it for the future and use “cut & paste” for
the next idiot from “Komsomol True.”
m.
Then, despite Mama’s professed ambivalence about my interview, I received another message from her within twenty minutes, when I failed to respond instantaneously to the first one:
Is this all? That much for your feedback!
In any case please don’t forget to bring the kitchen knives
for me. Please put them in your luggage right now.
m.
I opened the attachment and found that my mother had conveniently decided to write her history of my early childhood from my first-person perspective:
I left Kharkov at the age of one year. To preschool I never did go. This was unnecessary because my mother was forced to take leave of her job “by her own volition” (or rather, that of her supervisor). In this fashion, she was able to stay at home with me.
My father was a night watchman. He guarded the kiosk next to the concert hall Ukraina in Shevchenko Park. The kiosk was called Café Lira. Port wine was sold there and candies as well (probably as a snack for after drinking port wine). Besides this, there was nothing else to guard in the kiosk. Papa was given a job there with the hope that he would drink less than the other watchmen. And this hope was fully realized.
One day my papa had a stroke of good fortune—he was offered a job moonlighting as a night watchman at the zoo, which was located nearby. In this fashion, he could guard two locations simultaneously. But this happiness was short lived—he lasted only a month and a half before someone filed an anonymous report against him, revealing that he had a higher education. The director of the zoo did not want any trouble and Papa was fired.
From time to time, my parents were summoned by the KGB for “a chat.” There they were given the neverchanging, standard question: “What is the real reason that you are leaving the country?” To which they would give the standard response: “To reunite with our relatives,” and then something about the humane policies of the Party and the government. After these fruitful exchanges they were usually told, “Wait, we will notify you.” And then everything would repeat itself.
My mother had cleverly avoided answering any of the questions I had highlighted and was clearly presenting a version of events Komsomolskaya Pravda was unlikely to deem publishable. So I cheerfully forwarded it on, sending the whole thing off to ELMONSTRO unedited. With my parents’ questions out of the way, it was time to focus on my own. I considered just doing a rush job. (Are you very beautiful? Yes. Do you have any zoons? No.) But I ended up dutifully responding to each question in turn. Slowly the fascinating portrait of a Libra with no interest in acting and no aptitude for physics, who could be said to like cooking only if making coffee counts, began to emerge.
The last question was the most difficult: Do you want to arrive to Kharkov with concerts? I had talked to enough newspapers in the various places I’d called home over the past few years to know the kind of local boosterism required of me here, but I could not seem to fluff myself up to the task. I considered trying to explain, but what kind of pixelated meaning would emerge from Kiril’s random word generator when he learned that the only relative my family stayed in touch with back in Kharkov was a man known to me as the Cousin Who Drinks Water? I hesitated to put it in cold print, but the truth was that I didn’t want to arrive in Kharkov with concerts; I had already gone back once and found there just wasn’t much to return to.
It was my grandfather’s death that convinced me to go back. A geography professor and decorated World War II veteran, my grandfather was an unflinching Kharkov patriot. Throughout my childhood, he sent us postcards with photographs of impossibly boring buildings born of some hideous concrete wafflemaker that said things like “Kharkov, My City, My Motherland.” He kept sending them even after the economy collapsed, the city shut all the streetlamps off at night, and he was forced to provide the bed sheets, gauze, and syringes for his own prostate surgery. I figured there would always be time to go see him. At eighty-six, my grandfather was still quite spry. It was that way right up until the night he went to sleep and never woke up. I was surprised to be shaken by his death, considering this was a man I had never known, a black-and-white photograph labeled “Dedushka.” But I was, and I blamed my own inertia for not visiting him in Ukraine or even just picking up the phone to say hello. I had a lot of excuses for not calling. Mostly I was worried there’d be nothing to talk about. But there was also the very real danger that my aunt Lyuda would pick up the phone. And what could I possibly say to a woman whose last letter to my father had announced, “If I could strangle you with my own hands, I would”?
All families are complicated. Those forced to live according to the whims of a totalitarian regime perhaps more so. And those, like mine, where some members of the family flee, leaving the remaining members exposed to unhelpful levels of KGB scrutiny, can be described as completely fucked. The day my parents filed their application to leave the Soviet Union, both of my mother’s parents were forced to resign from their jobs at the pharmaceutical research institutes where they had worked for over twenty-five years. By way of explanation they were posed the following rhetorical question: “How can you be expected to produce good research when you can’t even discipline your own child?” A few years later they joined us in Massachusetts. My father’s family, on the other hand, was left more or less unmolested; Papa’s parents both managed to keep their jobs and seemed to live contentedly enough. But soon bad news began drifting over to us from Ukraine, in letters written on painfully translucent paper and via phone calls from my father’s cousin. A year after we emigrated, my grandfather was forced to retire from his job. Then, in the post-Perestroika years, the family suffered a series of financial setbacks followed by my grandmother’s sudden death from diabetes. Aunt Lyuda blamed Papa’s flight from the Soviet Union for putting them all in peril, and for all of the family’s current problems besides. So they no longer spoke to each other, and Mama, who already used the word idiot as if it were a common pronoun, especially had nothing nice to say about that side of the family.
But family matters aside, Kharkov lacked other kinds of appeal. It didn’t
cast a particularly long shadow over world history like the ancient capital of Kiev. Nor was it a beautiful jewel-box city like Lvov. Invariably, the two words people used to describe Kharkov were either industrial or big. Occasionally big and industrial were helpfully combined to yield the illuminating phrase “a big industrial city.” I grew up in a sleepy colonial town west of Boston and had very little experience with big industrial cities. So I pictured Kharkov as an apocalyptic version of Springfield or Worcester, places we drove through from time to time on our way to somewhere more picturesque. And I had to admit, traveling five thousand miles just to visit the Worcester of Ukraine wasn’t the most enticing proposition.
After my grandfather died, the only member of the family who Papa stayed in touch with was the Cousin Who Drinks Water. This was the nickname we gave my father’s cousin Lyonya after he sent Papa a twelve-page letter which began with the question “What is Health?” The answer, it turned out, was water. In particular, salt water. And the letter went on to detail the many benefits of drinking salt water in various unorthodox ways, culminating in the optimally beneficial process of drawing it up through your nose. Lyonya was a loyal proponent of this system and vigorously recommended Papa adopt it for himself. The only drawback, he explained, is that sometimes a loose bit of water might fall out of your face during the course of conversation. A small enough price to pay for immortality.
Papa was greatly amused by the letter and felt the urge to share it with someone, but when it came to letters from Kharkov, Mama was never in a sharing mood. So he called me into his study instead and read it out loud, which is how Lyonya became the Cousin Who Drinks Water. It was a long nickname to be sure, a bit awkward in the mouth, but Papa and I were committed to it. The only other story I ever remembered hearing about Lyonya was after my parents’ sole return to the former Soviet Union in 1990. I asked Papa how it was seeing his cousin again for the first time in almost fifteen years, and Papa replied, “It was great. He stood on his head for us.”